The warehouse smelled of old timber and dusted oil. Crates stacked like silent sentinels stretched toward the low-hanging rafters.
clank… shuffle… whisper…
Carrow's men moved with precision, eyes flicking to the shadows. Krain's faction mirrored them across the narrow aisle, cautious, tense, their gloved hands brushing against crates as if expecting them to bite.
I stayed in the darkness, perched behind a stack of mislabeled containers, cataloging every motion. Every glance. Every twitch of a finger. Useful information. Essential leverage.
tap… hum…
Two crates in particular caught my attention: marked for Krain but slightly off-angle, their numbers misaligned. Perfect. A minor tweak here, a swapped tag there. No one would notice until it was too late.
I traced the edge of a crate with my fingers, leaving a faint scuff of paint a subtle tell for me, a breadcrumb that would later confirm my manipulation. A deliberate imperfection, like one of those graffiti marks Rook once left, invisible to all but the careful eye.
scrape… drip…
Carrow's lieutenant adjusted his coat, noticing the slight misplacement. A flicker of irritation crossed his eyes. Krain's eyes darted toward the crates as well. Tension crept into their movements, tiny cracks forming in an otherwise controlled performance. I could feel the doubt spreading like ink in water, quiet, inevitable.
whir… shuffle…
The exchange proceeded, silent and precise. Supplies changed hands; no explosions, no gunfire, just the measured cadence of suspicion weaving itself between the factions. Every footstep, every grunt, every breath became data. My fingers itched to adjust the ledger, swap a number, leave another mark. But patience, always patience. The seeds were planted; they only needed to grow.
I reminded myself: trust is expensive. Confusion is cheap. And right now, confusion was priceless.
clink… echo…
As the factions departed, their footsteps echoing down the metal walkways, I lingered in the shadows, letting the silence settle. The warehouse seemed to exhale with me, crates vibrating faintly with my heartbeat. I cataloged every detail in my mind: the hesitation in a hand, the micro-expression of doubt, the unspoken accusation bouncing between Carrow and Krain. Soon, they would turn on each other. Soon, I would not need to move a finger.
tap… hum…
I allowed a small smile. One mark. One swapped label. One scuff of paint. That was all it took. Soon, they would doubt each other. Soon, the game would tilt in my favor before I had even moved a piece.
And from my vantage, unseen, calculating, untouchable, I knew exactly how it would unfold.